Learning Curve
by just jen
Summary: Slash. Andrew has questions. Complete, so please don't ask for or demand updates.
1. 1

Title: Learning Curve  
  
Rating: R  
  
Author: Jen  
  
Summary: Andrew has questions.  
  
Disclaim-a-rama: The voices made me do it.  
  
Author's note: Set shortly after the end of 'Life Serial'.  
  
~~~~~  
  
"So what does it mean?" The catch in Andrew's lethargic, hesitant voice easily betrayed the casualness his body language was meant to signify. He perched on the edge of Warren's desk, picking up some scrap of wire and peeling away the insulation like it was a skinny green banana. Warren didn't need the wire, but Andrew's presumption had him tempted to snatch it back anyway. He sighed, but finished the sentence he was writing before he spoke.  
  
"What's what mean?" He didn't bother to look up. If Andrew wanted to play like this was nothing important, then Warren wasn't going to complain.  
  
"You know." Andrew refused to take his eyes off the wire he still twirled between his fingers. "Home...homer-phobia."  
  
Warren could not contain a snort of laughter, but he did not regret it either.  
  
"You're kidding, right?" He swivelled in his chair to shoot a look of disbelief at Jonathan. The third member of the trio was huddled in one of the faux-leather loungers in the corner by what used to be their gaming table, but was now their strategising table. Evidently still smarting from his encounter with the Slayer, he looked half asleep but managed a lazy shrug in response to Warren's enquiry.   
  
When he turned back, Andrew's face had slipped into a pout, his standard first response when he realised he was being made fun of.  
  
"I know what it *means*." The whine, for once, only added to Warren's amusement. "I just... What does it mean about - about someone who might have it?" He managed to make the last part sound suitably indignant, but the pout was still there. "Not me. 'Cause I don't. But you know, if someone did, what do *you* think it might mean about them?"  
  
For a moment, Warren could only stare at the boy sitting on his desk, as though Andrew had just asked him to explain how to work the TV remote. Finally, unable to find a suitably withering reply, he spun his chair around to face Jonathan again. Unfortunately his only ally against overwhelming naivety had apparently zonked out, the animal-print throw he'd brought from the van pooled in a wrinkled mess over his lap.   
  
Warren allowed himself another sigh and stood, pinching the bridge of his nose in anticipation of a major headache. When he looked at Andrew, he fixed the boy with the kind of resolute gaze he might have used to explain 'sit' to an untrained puppy.  
  
"It means you're gay," he announced, punctuating the sentence with a perfunctory nod of his head.  
  
The shift in Andrew's expression seemed to have been screened in super-slow-mo, as the thought registered visibly inside his muddled mind. Warren wished he'd had a camera to hand to capture it.  
  
"I am not gay!" The pout was back in full force, emphasised with a stamp of his right foot. Not one to miss an opportunity, Warren stepped closer.  
  
"Sure it does," he countered as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It means you get all wigged 'cause you don't want anyone to know you're a fruit." He tipped his head back slightly so that he could look down his nose at Andrew. The boy squirmed under his gaze, trying to back up despite the desk behind him. Warren moved closer still.  
  
"Now, I'm not saying it's a bad thing," he continued. It was tough not to laugh out loud at the look of frightened outrage on Andrew's face, but he persevered. "I mean, nothing wrong with it, right?" His knees were brushing Andrew's knees now as the kid tried to scoot further back on to the desk. "You can tell us if you are."  
  
"I am not!" Andrew was verging on hysterical. Warren wondered how much more it would take to make him cry.  
  
He experimented with a hand on Andrew's hip. The boy jumped like they'd made a static shock, but Warren refused to pull back. When he was satisfied that his target couldn't get away, he slid that hand down Andrew's thigh until his fingers brushed the inseam of Andrew's pants.  
  
  
  
Andrew had evidently figured out that he couldn't back up any more, and had resorted to merely looking scared witless.  
  
"Don't..." was all he could muster in response to the soft but insistent pressure Warren was now applying.  
  
"Come on," he breathed in a deadly whisper, "it's okay if you like it." He watched with surprised satisfaction as Andrew's eyes slid closed, whether in avoidance or arousal he couldn't tell, but it didn't matter. Andrew wasn't making a move to push his hand away.  
  
"Warren, cut it out." Jonathan's words pulled him away from Andrew and back into the lair. When he turned to look, it was tough to tell if Jonathan was even awake, until he shifted in his chair and pulled the animal-print throw up to his shoulders. He glared at them, until Warren reluctantly stepped away from Andrew, then dropped his head and closed his eyes once more. Warren guessed his interruption was more about snarking at him than about sticking up for Andrew, but he didn't want to have to deal with pissed-Jonathan *and* pissed-Andrew, so he acquiesced and made a show of leaving Andrew alone, crossing the room and fixing his attention on the bookshelves. He didn't mind so much. There was plenty more mileage to be had from this one.  
  
~~~~~  
  
tbc 


	2. 2

Chapter two  
  
Andrew wasn't gay, and he had the Playboys to prove it. Okay, technically he'd swiped them from Tucker's room, but they were under Andrew's mattress now, so that kind of made them Andrew's. And even if he hadn't slept in that room for two weeks and therefore hadn't looked at them in a while, Andrew still had Playboys under his mattress, so he wasn't gay. Besides, he hadn't been in his room because Warren had suggested that he and Jonathan move into the basement with him, and what did that say about Warren?  
  
Andrew was not gay. He knew he wasn't gay because he'd kissed girls - well, one girl, outside church after Sunday School one time, and even if she'd punched him in the arm and ran off afterwards, he'd still been the one to kiss her. He wasn't gay.  
  
Which meant that he probably shouldn't be as worried about all this as he was. Warren had said that worrying about being gay meant you probably were gay. So even though he was certain he liked girls, Andrew suspected there might still be something wrong with him.  
  
He guessed it might have something to do with Warren. Specifically, Warren's hand on his leg. Because although he knew it was wrong and he knew he wasn't gay, Warren's hand, stroking and squeezing his thigh, had...done things. Made something in his belly go 'squish', and his heart speed up and his skin feel prickly and warm, so that he was almost disappointed when Jonathan had made him stop. Almost. There had been nothing nice about the look on Warren's face or the hiss of his voice, but the rubbing on his leg was not something Andrew could forget. No matter how much he tried.  
  
It also raised the issue of why Warren had touched him in the first place, giving Andrew two reasons to wonder if maybe Warren was the one with something to hide.  
  
Andrew, however, was not gay. He knew the Slayer was hot, and that her quiet blonde friend was very pretty, and the red-haired friend was kind of cute too. He watched Warren's grainy imported European films and got excited at the right times. He had happy thoughts about Jeri Ryan. He liked girls. He wasn't gay.  
  
He just couldn't say that the thought of Warren's hand on his leg wasn't at least a little exciting.  
  
It was a conundrum, alright, and he definitely didn't like the thought of not knowing something. Especially when Warren seemed to know and could make fun of him for not knowing.  
  
He spent an instructive couple of hours on the 'net while Warren and Jonathan were out. For control purposes, he'd perused the porn sites in the history on Warren's computer to check his reaction. Everything in order there. Then, after pacing the lair and thinking unsexy thoughts to return to a neutral state, he'd braced himself, took a deep breath, and typed 'gay porn' into a search engine.   
  
He hadn't expected there to be so much. Not knowing where to start, he simply clicked a link at random and waited for self-awareness.  
  
Pictures of naked men leering at the camera and holding enormous erections only made him feel embarrassed and a little, well, inadequate. Andrew half hoped those images had been manipulated somehow, if only for the sake of the poor boyfriends waiting at home for the men in the photos. Some of the pictures just made him giggle out loud, and then he had to double check that he really was alone, in case anyone had heard.  
  
There were pictures of men with other men, sometimes three, four, five at a time, and those interested Andrew, sparked his curiosity. Which was okay, he decided, because curiosity was good. Well, not so much in the cat-killing sense, but curiosity led also to discovery, and not just the discovery of dead cats. Soon he found himself wondering, purely out of innocent curiosity of course, what it might feel like to be touched like *that* or have someone's tongue just *there*, and whether it made a difference if it was a man or a woman doing the touching.  
  
The major discovery of the afternoon was that while naked men were either scary or boring, there was something about the thought of naked men together that made him feel pleasantly squiggly inside. His only worry was that it wasn't any different to the way regular porn made him feel, and he wondered if perhaps it was just porn in general that did that.  
  
He found other things besides pictures, and spent some time reading various articles and stories, which turned out to be more informative even than the pictures. There, he learned words like 'frottage' and 'rimming', and what it might feel like to have some guy's 'tumescent cock graze the soft, sensitive skin of his backside'. He wasn't sure what 'tumescent' meant, and couldn't say he relished the thought of anyone's cock near his backside, but the rest of it made him feel as squelchy inside as some of the pictures had done.  
  
Somewhere among the articles he discovered the word 'bi-curious'. It seemed to fit. Because again, curious was good, right? Perfectly healthy. And definitely not gay.  
  
He wondered if maybe Warren was bi-curious too, and if that was why he'd touched Andrew's leg. Since he already had reason to suspect that Warren wasn't so straight either, it kind of made sense. Obviously, Warren had had the same kind of confusion as Andrew, and after identifying him as a fellow bi-whatever, he'd decided to try it out, only being Warren he naturally had enough confidence to go straight to the source instead of sneaking furtive glances at gay porn in an empty room.  
  
After deleting the sites he'd visited from the history on Warren's PC, he wondered if maybe he should thank Warren for helping him figure it out.  
  
~~~~~  
  
tbc 


	3. 3

Chapter three  
  
"How did you know?"  
  
Andrew was clocking a whole three hours and seventeen minutes straight of being a pain in the ass. It could well have been a personal best. So far it had been agitated pacing, and frustrated sighs which Warren guessed meant he wanted to say something but didn't know how. The boy had the vocabulary of a five year old, or a gym teacher.   
  
Obviously something was bugging him, and a good friend would have asked what it was. Warren had not said a word.  
  
He did not say anything now. Just kept his eyes on his desk. Invisibility rays did not design themselves.  
  
He felt rather than heard Andrew step into his personal space. Immediately, he slapped his pencil down on to the desk: no way he could work now. The boy's presence in his immediate vicinity made him bristle like a chill wind in summer. When he finally spun his chair around, Andrew watched him with an expectant expression, and Warren had to think hard for a moment to recall what he'd asked.  
  
"Know what?" Coupled with his lack of articulation was Andrew's assumption that everyone knew what he meant anyway, and sometimes Warren wanted to smack him because of it. He fixed Andrew with a look that he hoped said, 'what the hell are you talking about, you little freak?' Knowing Andrew, the meaning would be lost entirely, but thinking it made Warren feel just a little better.  
  
Now Andrew dropped his gaze, and Warren hoped it was out of embarrassed understanding of his own accusatory stare.  
  
"You know, about me." He looked over at the other side of the room, then his eyes rolled up to stare intently at the ceiling. His face suggested that he was hiding some guilty and exciting secret. It did not, however, give Warren any further clue to his meaning.  
  
Warren shrugged, and shifted his expression to 'get on with it, I have better things to do'.  
  
Andrew mustered some futile and frustrated gesture with a flap of his hands, as though trying to grasp the words out of the air itself.  
  
"That... thing you said about me, the other day. When you said I was..." Andrew tried a quick waggle of his eyebrows, as if they could express it better than he could. Warren had probably said a million different things about Andrew in the past few days. Finally desperate enough to help Andrew out, he sorted through his mental catalogue of insults, wondering which one specifically had Andrew so worked up. Challenged? Insane? Gay?  
  
The last one had a glimmer of familiarity. As if to confirm his thoughts, Andrew continued, "was it, like, gaydar or something?" He dipped his head forward in a conspiratorial nod, and the awed tone in his voice made the word sound like it was a super-power.  
  
That one sure came out of nowhere. The boy watched him with eager anticipation, and Warren realised he had just seconds to assess the situation and figure out the best way to make fun of it.  
  
"What are - "  
  
"'Cause you can tell me," Andrew interrupted. "Or not. If you're not, that is. I just figured, since you knew about me, and I thought maybe I might have it too 'cause I kinda guessed about you, although I could be wrong, I don't know, I just don't know how you can tell, exactly..." In a complete shift from perturbed silence, suddenly Andrew's babbling knew no bounds. Somewhere in the middle, Warren had finally guessed what he was trying to say, and was currently lodged in a stunned stupor, wondering what the hell to do with Andrew's admission.  
  
"You guessed about me?" he repeated, trying to process the order of the bubble of thoughts spilling from Andrew's mouth. Only when the boy's face lit up in sheer delight did he realise his mistake.  
  
"I did?" Andrew's eyebrows had shot up so far they were trying to crawl into his hairline. "Ohhh... Hey, that's... Oh, I won't tell! I promise!" Andrew fluttered his hands, practically vibrating with excitement. Warren was quietly panicking.   
  
Every manly nerve in his admittedly low-macho body was firing a 'no no no' signal, demanding that he set Andrew straight, in every sense of the word. Until Andrew spoke again.  
  
"Oh, this is so cool! You and me, both... you know!"  
  
"You and me," he muttered, again simply repeating Andrew's mindless yammering, but he could feel the seed as it was planted. "You got me," he announced, hands up in surrender. "You figured it out." He took a deep breath, planning quickly, hoping Andrew was as trusting as he'd seemed so far. "Wow. 'Skinda good, having somebody else know." He managed a machine-gun laugh, and it sounded convincing. "You and me. Wow."  
  
Andrew was beaming like a skinny blonde sun, and for a second Warren feared the kid might actually hug him. He half-turned, a hand covering his mouth, and Andrew sagged just a little. He didn't stop smiling though.  
  
Yeah. This could work. This had possibilities.  
  
And there it was, engendered. A monstrous birth indeed.  
  
~~~~~  
  
tbc 


	4. 4

Chapter four  
  
If Jonathan was paranoid, it was with good reason. People really did talk behind his back, leave him out of plans and set him up for spiteful jokes. He'd spent most of high school learning when to be suspicious, and it had paid off.  
  
There was something new. Something had spawned and was festering even now, beyond the usual basement mildew and the smell of sweat that came from three young men sharing the same space twenty-four hours a day. It wasn't entirely tangible just yet, but Jonathan could feel it, just beyond the reach of words. Close enough to taste, but not so firm that he could bite.  
  
Andrew was quiet. That was enough to alert any hunt-able creature to potential danger. As a rule, Andrew rarely had a thought that did not pass immediately to his mouth, but now Jonathan could see something behind his eyes that he was choosing not to vocalise. It had to be something menacing, he guessed, if Andrew had enough self-control to keep it to himself. He'd taken to wearing a sly, secretive smile that cleared up whenever he caught Jonathan looking at him, and sometimes would disappear so far into his thoughts that he looked entirely lost.  
  
Other times he bounced around the lair like he was expending a week's worth of pent-up energy, and Jonathan became convinced it was some kind of displacement activity, like he had to keep moving for fear of letting his secret slip out if he stayed too still for too long.  
  
Maybe he could deal with Andrew's odd behaviour if Warren weren't so dismissive of it. Usually Warren was the first to find a reason to yell at Andrew, but lately he had become oddly lenient. He barely reacted to Andrew's raving over Michael Dorn's spot in what Warren had called a truly abysmal 'Outer Limits', and he'd stopped sending Andrew away when he hovered over Warren's work desk.  
  
Jonathan was fairly certain they'd all been friends at one time, honest-to-goodness friends who hung out because they enjoyed each other's company. The super-villain shtick was screwing that up beyond belief.  
  
A couple of weeks ago, he'd just been getting over the fact that Andrew was a complete ditz and Warren hated everyone who wasn't Warren. Now, he couldn't help wondering just what they were capable of. After all, there were spells in his repertoire he hadn't told the others about, so who knew what they were hiding from him? Andrew might easily do something stupid out of spite, and Warren, well...  
  
Jonathan had tried to relieve his own neuroses by fixing himself, but Warren seemed convinced he could make things better by fixing the rest of the world.  
  
There might have been some worth in that. Out of the three of them, Warren was the one who might have stood a fair chance out in the world. He wore suits when he took them to the Bronze, and talked back to the wise guys, even if they usually responded with their fists, and he could talk to girls without stuttering over every other word. He'd sold his revenge fantasies with that same confidence, and made them both believe taking over this stupid town would make them all feel better.  
  
That same solidarity still lingered, but now Jonathan was beginning to think that 'us against the world' only applied when they were actually out in the world. Within the confines of the basement, the world seemed so far away. Resentments had to be taken out on other things.  
  
He found himself beating up pixellated people more and more often. It wasn't the same as smacking that smile off Andrew's face, but it helped.  
  
Eventually he'd find out what they were hiding from him, and then he could say he'd known all along.  
  
~~~~~  
  
tbc 


	5. 5

Note: takes place post-'Gone'  
  
~~~~~  
  
"I thought I could trust you."  
  
The kid had been sulking for twenty-four hours now. Well, technically they'd both been sulking, but Andrew was being much more vocal about it, like Warren had betrayed him personally or something.  
  
Which was ridiculous because he hadn't done a thing to Andrew, or Jonathan. What difference would it have made to them if he'd removed the Slayer from the equation?  
  
"I mean, I thought we were all about trust now." Andrew was still ranting as Warren reviewed his notes. "What with the, the sharing of secrets, and everything." He'd dropped his voice to a whisper, even though they were the only two in the lair. Jonathan was on his second long walk of the day. Warren decided that was kind of worrying, but he was too preoccupied at present to decide what to do about it. The Plan needed some serious revisions.  
  
Evidently not ready to let the whole thing drop, Andrew had stepped right up into Warren's personal space, one sneaker-ed foot tap-tapping impatiently on the floor.  
  
"I don't think I wanna trust you with stuff anymore." Suddenly there was so much venom in the boy's voice that Warren could have believed he was channelling Jonathan. He pushed away from the desk so that his chair spun around until he was facing Andrew. The kid was working up to a super-charged pout, arms folded over his chest like a protective barrier.  
  
"Hey, whoa," he replied, hands up to say 'hold on a minute'. Trust was kind of an essential part of The Plan. "Why would you think that? C'mon, man, you can trust me." He rose carefully to his feet, making Andrew back up a step.  
  
"But…you lied." There was a definite shake in Andrew's voice now, and Warren worked hard to hide his pleasure. If only everyone was this easy to intimidate.  
  
Evidently realising his resolve was failing, Andrew jutted his chin forward, drawing a deep breath and refolding his arms, shifting his weight over on to one foot. All it did was put Warren in mind of a little kid demanding candy.  
  
"I didn't lie." Which was in itself a lie, even more blatant than the one in question, but then what was honesty to a crime-lord? "I just… I messed up."  
  
Hopefully it would be vague enough to confuse Andrew, which was all Warren really needed. Just throw his twisted mind off the real track and on to something entirely new, and he'd soon get distracted.  
  
He could see from Andrew's shifting expression that he was already glancing in the new direction Warren had shown him.  
  
"Messed up?" Andrew's voice suggested confusion and hope, and Warren took that hope and ran with it.  
  
"Look, you can't bail on me, man. I need you."  
  
The brief moment of hesitation was a clear enough sign that Andrew was ready to follow the breadcrumbs Warren had dropped.  
  
"You mean, you need me and Jonathan, right?" The kid unfolded his arms and glanced down at his hands, twitchy fingers lacing together.  
  
Warren stepped closer, and dropped another crumb.  
  
"I need you, Andrew. I need your help." He reached out and wrapped a hand around Andrew's arm. Distractedly, he took stock of just how thin Andrew was beneath his flannel shirt. So breakable. "Figuring out some stuff."  
  
Andrew squirmed under his touch for just a moment before asking, "What kind of stuff?" Warren responded by raising his free hand and brushing the tips of blunt fingers along the line of Andrew's jaw. He felt the boy twitch, then relax as understanding dawned.  
  
He had time to breathe an "Ohhh" of acknowledgement before Warren braced himself and moved in.  
  
Warren kept his grip on Andrew's arm, applying the same kind of softly persistent pressure as he did with his lips. Not so much as to overwhelm the boy, not so little that he'd forget who was in charge. Then again, Warren felt certain that this was Andrew's first, and he doubted Andrew would be in any rush to assume control.  
  
When he was done, he pulled back and found himself vaguely amused by the way Andrew's eyes refused to open, his lashes fluttering faintly as he basked in the remains of sensation. He mustered another "Ohhh," quieter this time, every bit the kid in a coming-of-age movie, even down to the faraway smile tugging at his mouth.  
  
He waited patiently for Andrew to look at him again.  
  
"Wow…" Andrew was hooked, no doubt about it. Warren felt certain. He nodded in agreement. Sure, it was fantastic, incredible, amazing, whatever Andrew wanted it to be. "Warren, that was…"  
  
The boy's face clouded for a moment, and before Warren could ask what was wrong he asked, "Are you serious?" Damn. The continual paranoia of the insecure. Warren remembered that feeling all too well.  
  
Acting quickly, he slid the hand on Andrew's elbow downwards to take hold of the boy's hand, and gave it a quick squeeze. Andrew melted into a wide smile, sagging visibly with relief. A moment's indecision, then he darted forward and pushed his lips against Warren's. Warren decided to allow him this one liberty.   
  
Afterwards, Andrew resumed beaming at him, Warren's hand still holding his.  
  
Oh, yeah. Hook, line, sinker, rod and copy of 'Angling Times'.  
  
They were interrupted by the door opening. He couldn't have timed it better if he'd tried. Warren dropped Andrew's hand before Jonathan appeared at the top of the stairs, and flashed the boy a wink before turning back to his work. This would definitely make things easier.  
  
~~~~~  
  
tbc 


	6. 6

Chapter six  
  
It was like a twenty-four hour sugar rush. Like waking up on the first day of summer vacation and knowing the next two months were entirely his. Like Christmas and his birthday and the premiere of 'Fellowship...' all at once.  
  
Andrew wondered if this was what love felt like.  
  
The intricacies of The Plan did not allow them much time alone. Even when Jonathan wasn't around, there was often some vital piece of work that kept Warren occupied and out of Andrew's reach. Some days, they were lucky if they could find even a few seconds in which they could be together.  
  
He could feel it physically, crawling under his skin like the little red spider mites that scurried over the stone steps that led down to the Lair from outside. A defiant itch that could only be eased by Warren's touch.  
  
Yet with every passing day it seemed harder to satisfy. Even when they'd spent a full half hour sprawled across the beanbag chairs making out like crazy, he'd been left wanting more.  
  
He knew there was more, plenty more, than what they'd already done. His research had not stopped with the discovery of the name for people like him and Warren. There'd been things on the 'net that had left him feeling fizzy and eager to try them out, if only Warren would let him.  
  
It was maybe a little disheartening that Warren had shown no inclination to progress beyond kissing. Sometimes his hands would roam over Andrew's back or scrape the nape of his neck, raising goosebumps all down his arms, but they stayed resolutely above the belt. Andrew had given this careful consideration. There was enough porn in the Lair to show that Warren had a healthy interest in sex, and he had taken care to ease Andrew's insecurities about his feelings for the blonde. Andrew himself had been very enthusiastic about the kissing and stuff, and he was certain he had not been giving the dreaded Mixed Signals that Warren had complained about when he talked about girls.  
  
The only logical conclusion was that Warren was being protective. He did not want to move things on too fast. He was waiting for some sign that Andrew was ready for s-e-x, and would not dream of forcing Andrew into anything he wasn't ready for.  
  
Andrew thought it all dreadfully romantic.  
  
He'd realised one evening, as Warren had kissed him sweetly before reluctantly turning away to his workbench, that he was being courted. Which was wonderful and amazing and made him giggle like a loon, but had one downfall in the sense of the not having of sex. And Andrew was ready for sex, dammit. Way ready. Willing, too, and hopefully able.   
  
There'd been pleasant daydreams of subtle seductions, Warren plying him with wine and then leading him to the bedroom where they'd do pleasant things under the blankets in soft-focus. Warren would be the worldly, sophisticated Cardassian to Andrew's brilliant but naïve doctor, just like the stories he'd read online.  
  
Evidently this would not happen.  
  
Andrew was beginning to wonder if he should be the one to make the first move. Which was sort of disappointing since he'd been looking forward to being the seducee, but Andrew was getting kind of frantic. Unlike Warren, he could not hide the excitement that was brought on by their kisses, and he was beginning to think that he might soon burst from the frustration.   
  
It would have been nice to have wine, and candles and music, and hours of soft slow passion. What he had was one hour on a dreary Thursday afternoon while Jonathan was out picking up supplies.  
  
Warren was in the leather lounger, pencilling notes into the margin of some textbook. So smart, his Warren. The apprehension was terrifying, really, but Andrew thought about how long he might have to wait if he did not act immediately, and that was it.  
  
Andrew seized the day. Then he crossed the room and seized Warren's book, tossing it aside like it didn't matter in the least. He ignored Warren's look of outraged surprise and climbed astride his lap, knees pressed tight against the chair arms, wedging them both firmly into the seat.  
  
"Hey!" was Warren's initial response, followed by, "wha-what are you doing?" He still held his pencil between two fingers, like a cigarette.  
  
Andrew slid into a knowing smile, arching one eyebrow and pressing his hips forward. Clearly, Warren's strangled squeak indicated his surprise at the thought of innocent Andrew putting the moves on him. Andrew liked that.   
  
Emboldened, he dipped his head to capture Warren's lips with his own, a delicious wet kiss that set Andrew's insides gurgling like a glass of alka-seltzer. As he pulled back, he rocked his hips once more. He'd looked up the word 'tumescent', and felt a surge of smug giddiness at the thought that he now knew how to describe the hardness that he pressed against Warren's groin.  
  
Warren still looked perplexed, like he was trying to reconcile his assumptions about the callow, quiet Andrew with the blonde fiend who was currently straddling him.  
  
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he finally answered, ignoring the quiver in his voice that betrayed just how petrified he still felt. He emphasised his point with another small thrust of his hips, concentrating hard to catch any responding twitch from Warren.  
  
Instead he was met with a nervous staccato laugh and a "whoa, whoa, whoa" from Warren, who grasped Andrew's hips with strong hands in an effort to keep him still.  
  
Immediately Andrew felt nauseous. What if Warren didn't want this after all? He jumped out of Warren's lap like he'd been burned, backing up a couple of steps for good measure.  
  
"Oh God," he breathed, wondering where the words had gone. "Warren... Warren, I'm so sorry." He felt like he was being boiled from the inside out, skin tight and hot and red like a fried tomato. He barely registered Warren's apologetic expression as the guy clambered up out of his chair. "I just thought, I thought you wanted to but you were waiting, like you wanted to be sure I was, you know, and I was and I thought you didn't know and do you hate me now?" He jammed his hands in his pockets, wishing his tumescence weren't so tumescent.   
  
Warren stumbled a half a step towards him.  
  
"Andrew, slow down," he cautioned. "You're like, way ahead of me here, and I'm trying to catch up." There was another flutter of panicky laughter before Warren reached out and laid his hands on Andrew's shoulders. "You wanted to..." He trailed off and made a vague gesture between the two of them. Andrew nodded. "Wow. That's, that's... wow."  
  
"Did you not want to?"   
  
"I, I..." Warren appeared to think very hard for a moment. Andrew waited patiently: Warren always had the right words, so he had to be allowed time to think of them. "I want to," he announced after some hesitation, "but not just yet." Andrew sagged a little, an odd mixture of relief and disappointment roiling inside him. "It's so soon, you know, and I guess there's still some stuff I have to figure out." Andrew got that, he really did. Struggling with one's sexuality was not to be taken lightly. He should know, after all. He nodded again, and offered Warren a sympathetic smile.  
  
"That's cool, I guess."   
  
Warren's hands slid down, gently pulling Andrew's hands from his pockets until Warren could twine their fingers together.  
  
"It'll happen," he assured Andrew. "Just be patient. Wait for me."  
  
And Andrew would. He would do whatever Warren asked, because Warren had done so much for him, and he wanted nothing more than to make his Warren happy.  
  
~~~~~  
  
tbc 


	7. 7

Note: takes place just prior to the first Troika scene in 'Dead Things'.  
  
Chapter seven  
  
This was not The Plan. This was a plan, a backup plan, and not the first time he'd had to resort to one. The Plan had not included the Slayer. His backup plan had said nothing about the Slayer's friends stumbling on their lair. The next plan had not included any way of dealing with a total lack of trust from Jonathan and Andrew, and the current plan was originally devised as a means of bringing them both back into line.  
  
Plans just had too many variables. Particularly human variables.  
  
As it turned out, Andrew was painless enough to deal with. A few kisses and whispered promises here and there, and the kid was his lapdog. Throw the stick, and leave him to it. Which meant that Warren was left with plenty of time to think. It was vaguely amusing. He could set his body to automatic and let his mind focus on whatever part of the plan required his attention.  
  
That was how he'd come up with contingency measure number four (or was it five now?). There'd been one lazy afternoon with not much else to do, and Andrew had been so engrossed in what they'd been doing that Warren had thought him hypnotised.   
  
And there it was. One random thought had led to the genesis of the Cerebral Dampener. In Warren's mind, it had been basically an all-purpose mind-scrambling device, for use in getaways, dodgy deals, and for bringing untrusting colleagues back into line. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to resort to its use in the latter case, but clearly Jonathan was not so easily swayed as Andrew.  
  
Frankly, he was beginning to doubt Jonathan's commitment to the cause. The shortcake was still hampered by his warped notions of right and wrong, and sometimes Warren couldn't figure out why Jonathan had ever fancied himself a villain in the first place. Still, he was on board and therefore in it for the duration, so Warren had to be certain Jonathan didn't lose focus of the goal.   
  
The problem, or the latest in a long line of problems, was when Andrew and the munchkin had stumbled across some early diagrams for the Cerebral Dampener, and had innocently asked for explanations. There wasn't much point in lying at that stage, so Warren had described his plans for a device that would temporarily blank the mind of a chosen target, leaving them open to suggestion. Jonathan had been the one to suggest the possibility of winning over members of the opposite sex. Dimly worried that it would blow his cover with Andrew, Warren had not voiced his approval but Andrew, wildly overcompensating, had jumped on the idea, and of course he'd had to agree.  
  
Scheming was hard sometimes, especially now he had Andrew as his very own living shadow. Although the 'guilty secret' the two of them shared helped keep Andrew quiet. He'd convinced the boy that Jonathan would not approve of them making out behind his back, and so Andrew had dutifully kept his mouth shut until Warren, feeling uncharacteristically generous one afternoon, had felt a need to let Andrew in on the next stage of the real plan. Nevertheless, it had taken some time to convince the boy that they'd be better off letting Jonathan take the rap for the next lot of robberies.   
  
"So we're just going to ditch him?" Andrew had whined. He'd plonked himself down in Warren's lap and begun tracing circles across Warren's chest with the tip of one finger. In an attempt to look interested, Warren had responded to the touch by scratching the lines of the improved freeze-ray schematics over Andrew's back, making the boy shiver inside his T-shirt.  
  
"Someone's gotta stay and distract the cops," he'd explained. Andrew was not convinced.  
  
"But I don't wanna leave him behind. He's as much a part of this as we are."  
  
"Don't get too attached." Warren had changed the trajectory of the finger that stroked across Andrew's back, running trails down to the boy's hip and thigh. Just enough to distract him and throw him off balance. "I'm not sure he's entirely with us on this one."  
  
That had piqued Andrew's interest, but he had refused to explain. Just insisted that Jonathan would be a necessary loss.  
  
"So Jonathan's a red shirt?" Andrew had asked, tentatively. Warren'd nodded, his face the picture of resigned regret. Andrew had appeared to think this over, eventually nodding back, reluctantly accepting what had to be because Warren had said it was so. "Even though the red shirt metaphor is kind of redundant now," he'd continued aimlessly, "you know, since they switched the significance of the red and gold shirts."  
  
Warren had given this appropriate consideration, eventually conceding to Andrew's observation. Then Andrew had leaned in to kiss him, so he'd let Andrew take over while he set his mind to solving the problem of containing the Cerebral Dampener's field so that it did not zap the mind of its user.  
  
~~~~~  
  
tbc 


	8. 8

Note: takes place between 'Normal Again' and 'Entropy'  
  
Chapter eight  
  
  
  
It was never entirely quiet in the Lair. Computers hummed tunelessly to themselves, miscellaneous electronic doodads clicked and whirred intermittently and now, since they'd drawn up a rota to ensure a twenty-four-hour watch, there was always at least one person up and about.  
  
Presently, Warren was the one watching the surveillance monitors, and Andrew should have been asleep. He usually was: Jonathan often griped at him for being able to fall asleep so easily. Tonight though, the Valerian root on Jonathan's workstation explained why he was already snoring heavily in his sleeping bag while Andrew stared blankly at the ceiling. They'd been suggesting sleeping tablets for at least a week before the short-round had actually resorted to taking them. Now he slept for hours at a time, but still somehow looked like a zombie when he was awake. Not even a 'Return of the Living Dead' zombie either, but a 'Night of the Living Dead' one who stumbled around with no purpose or sentience.   
  
It was getting kind of creepy. Andrew knew he was supposed to be distancing himself from Jonathan, in readiness for the day when they would ditch him like a greasy burger wrapper for the cops to clear away, but it wasn't easy. It reminded him of the goat in 'Jurassic Park', and sometimes he couldn't even bear to look at Jonathan because the knowledge of what was going to happen made him sick. He couldn't help but remember the Jonathan who'd stuck up for him when Tucker was being an asshole, and who'd carried on hanging out with him when Tucker had gone off to the fancy out-of-state college his folks had wished he'd applied to. That Jonathan had been fun: nothing like the whiny, neurotic little thing he'd become lately.  
  
So mostly he ignored Jonathan, and when Andrew had to speak to him, he tried to remember the way Jonathan could snap and snarl and put him down, just like Tucker used to. It made it a little more painless. Angry-Jonathan would be easier to leave behind.  
  
Besides, Warren had planned it, and that meant it would work. Warren decided things, and Warren fixed things, like he fixed the thing with that girl they'd tested the Cerebral Dampener on. Like he'd fixed Andrew when he'd had his panic attack after they'd gotten rid of... of it.   
  
In his sleeping bag, eyes fixed on the damp patch on the ceiling that looked like a map of Australia, Andrew wondered if Warren could fix himself.  
  
During the day, he was regular old Warren, quick with a joke and often caught shooting Andrew longing looks across the Lair when Jonathan wasn't paying attention. When the lights went out, though, it was like Warren was out too. If he was on watch, he'd stare at the monitors like he was hypnotised, like the Simpsons at the end of 'The Shinning', all work and no play makes Warren...something...something.  
  
At first he'd wondered if Warren was just resting his mind after all that thinking, like maybe he just needed some downtime. But there was a coldness to his silence, something that warned Andrew against trying to interrupt it.  
  
Warren hadn't budged in what seemed like ages. Not even to shift his weight from the elbow that leant on the desk where he sat. Suddenly Andrew was shot cold with the thought that maybe Warren had died there, some kind of heart attack from all the stress, perhaps. What could kill a man without him moving? Poison? Had Jonathan slipped some mystical potion-thing into his Dr Pepper? Maybe it was the Valerian root: maybe the treacherous little Ferengi had dosed him with maxi-strength Valerian root and put him to sleep for good.  
  
He sat up immediately, his sleeping bag making a soft swish about an octave higher than the singing of the computers. Warren did not stir at the sound. Panic gripped Andrew's chest and squeezed him like a toothpaste tube until he could barely breathe. His skin prickled as he stood and stepped towards the bank of monitors that Warren was meant to be watching.  
  
Warren still had not moved by the time Andrew was but a couple of paces away. His eyes were open, but all they showed was the unmoving blue-tinted reflection of the screens. Andrew resisted the temptation to reach out and touch him, in case Warren just keeled over and proved he really was dead.  
  
Stung with a faint mixture of terror and embarrassment, he whispered, "Warren?" wanting to wake him but not disturb Jonathan. He counted in heartbeats as Warren did not respond, reaching fifteen before drawing breath to whisper again. Before he could, Warren blinked once, twice, three times, like he'd just been roused from sleep. He lifted his head, looked round drowsily as though trying to gauge his whereabouts. It was all a little anti-climactic, Andrew thought, as the tension that had stiffened his body dripped away like melted ice-cream, leaving him feeling sticky and uncomfortable.  
  
Warren still stared, apparently waiting for an explanation.  
  
"Are you okay?" Andrew asked, careful and just a teensy bit afraid. Warren could snap and snarl too, although unlike Jonathan he usually apologised afterwards. To Andrew, at least.  
  
"Fine." Warren's dead-fish stare was spooky, and Andrew almost wanted to look away. But this was his Warren, and he couldn't help the desire to comfort, to find out what was wrong and make it go away. He couldn't fix things like Warren could, but he wanted to try.  
  
So he went for the one thing he knew he was good at. Still wary, he deposited himself in his boyfriend's lap, one arm curved gently around Warren's shoulders. When Warren did not protest, Andrew pressed one careful kiss to his forehead.  
  
"Things are bad, huh?" he pointed out, referring to the general mood of the Lair lately.   
  
"They'll get better."  
  
Andrew smiled gratefully, and Warren draped his arm over Andrew's thighs, holding him steady so he would not slip. All around them, gadgets and doohickies buzzed and whispered.  
  
"Soon?" The tension was bothering all of them lately, clinging and oppressive like mid-summer heat, and Andrew wanted it gone. So he was pleased when Warren nodded his answer.  
  
"Then we can get outta here," Warren explained. "You, me and more money than you could count."  
  
"You and me," Andrew echoed, and the idea sounded wonderful, but he could not keep from glancing across at where Jonathan lay sleeping. Immediately Warren caught the reason for that glance and reached up to cup his chin with one hand, turning Andrew back to face him.  
  
"He's not with us anymore." His voice was sharp, but regretful, and Andrew guessed that Warren felt as bad about it as he did. "He hasn't been for a long time," Warren continued. "He'd sell us out in a second if he could be sure the Slayer wouldn't kick his ass too."  
  
This came as a genuine surprise to Andrew. They were supposed to be The Trio, a brotherhood, and turning one's back on a brother was the ultimate betrayal. Well, he'd turn his back on Tucker, but that was a different kind of brotherhood and didn't count. Warren was willing to kill for the Trio. Tucker wouldn't spit on them if they were on fire.  
  
It made him sad, knowing now that it was just the two of them. But the more he thought about it, the more the idea seemed to hold a certain element of excitement. The two of them together, on a mission of unspeakable malevolence, bound by a love that the world would never accept.  
  
"It's just you and me now," Warren repeated, as though he could read Andrew's mind.   
  
"You and me against the world," he ventured, and Warren smiled at last, obviously pleased with that idea. Andrew grinned, and dipped his head for a kiss. Across the room, Jonathan kept snoring, oblivious.  
  
~~~~~  
  
tbc 


	9. 9

He'd scored the top bunk, but there was no accompanying thrill to go with the achievement. Jonathan had stopped fighting for it when he'd realised he couldn't climb up into it anyway. No matter which way he lay, there was a loose spring jabbing him in the back, and the pillow, if something so flat and tough could be called that, smelled like it hadn't been washed in weeks.  
  
Needless to say, everything pretty much sucked.  
  
A lumpy bed in a dank cell was not a part of Andrew's Plan. Then again, neither was a malfunctioning jetpack. It was so typical of his luck that just when he thought things were working out, something came along that screwed things up beyond belief. Evidently something had happened to his pack so that when he'd started the jets, they'd sent him off at the wrong angle, right into the awning instead of forwards and away from Jonathan and the Slayer.  
  
He brushed the bump on his head absently, wondering if it might need medical attention. He could have a concussion for all anyone knew, but they'd left him to languish on this stinking bunk like they didn't give a damn if he was dying or something. There was no blood, but the spot was still tender and angry, stinging when he pressed it.  
  
They'd taken away his jetpack despite his protests. He was desperate to examine it, in hopes of finding out what had gone wrong. True, he didn't have much of a clue about the mechanics of them, but there was always the chance that something Warren had said when he'd explained the designs might come back, and he could figure out why his had turned out to be faulty.  
  
Something in his stomach twisted when he thought of Warren. His earlier outburst was entirely uncalled for. He'd just been angry and upset and looking for someone to blame. Of course Warren wouldn't leave him. Warren had planned it all. Actually, they'd planned it all. Together. Get the money, head for the airport (minus the shortcake), get out of the country. Together. They hadn't written it down or made diagrams or charts or anything, because it was supposed to be a complete secret, but it was still their Plan.  
  
They hadn't been able to decide where they'd go next. They'd leafed through holiday brochures and talked about the places they wanted to see, turning what should have been an easy decision into a plethora of choices, each one as exciting as the last. Eventually Warren had announced that they'd just get seats on the first available flight leaving the country and see where fate took them. Andrew had declared it a dangerously romantic idea, as long as they ended up somewhere with room service.  
  
There were no clocks and no windows, and he wasn't wearing a watch, so there was no way of knowing how long they'd been in the cell. From the increasing buzz of activity elsewhere in the building, Andrew had guessed it was at least midmorning. He should have been out of this stupid country by now. Maybe still on the plane, maybe checking into a hotel. Maybe already...  
  
They were supposed to be together. Like, really be together. Warren had promised.  
  
Instead, he was stuck in lock-up, listening to Jonathan whining and trying to ignore several weeks worth of sexual tension that had been carefully timed to discharge right about now.  
  
This was not the place to be imagining Warren's fingers ghosting over his chest, Warren's lips and tongue venturing into as-yet undiscovered territory. There was something slightly perverted about getting excited in a place like this, and it made him feel queasy.  
  
In the bunk below him, Jonathan jabbed the underside of his mattress with a finger, distracting him from his daydream. He managed to be just a little grateful for the interruption.  
  
"Are you even listening to me?"  
  
Andrew did not respond. This was the first time in weeks that he and Warren had been apart for more than a couple of hours. The first time since he realised that Warren might possibly be his boyfriend. The thought brought about a dull ache deep in his gut. He missed Warren.  
  
He wondered if Warren missed him, or if he was too busy figuring out a way to rescue Andrew. Which of course was what would happen, because Warren would stick to The Plan, and The Plan said they would be together. If he closed his eyes, he could see it play out complete with big-budget effects and triumphant rock soundtrack. Warren would blast through the outer wall of their cell, non-faulty jetpack still strapped to his back, and would fly them both to safety, just like with the rocket boots in 'Final Frontier' only with a better script and fewer wrinkles.  
  
Somewhere underneath him, Jonathan griped about the cold. He stopped talking mid-sentence, interrupted by some sort of commotion away from their cell. Andrew raised his head to look, his stomach suddenly buzzing at the possibility of Warren bursting into the police station, taking out cops left and right as he forced his way through the building to rescue his beloved Andrew. But it turned out to be some drunk picking a fight with one of the officers. Andrew lay back down again, raising a hand to test the bump on his head and wondering how much longer he'd have to wait.  
  
~~~~~ 


	10. 10

Note: takes place post-Grave  
  
Chapter ten  
  
So it was done. Jonathan snapped the lock on the inside of the door, grateful that it would at least shut out the sweaty, leering monolith of a man who'd given them their room key, if no one else. The door was, of course, no protection against their pursuer, but Jonathan reasoned that if they'd made it this far, then maybe now they stood a chance. The more time passed, the more likely it was that Willow had given up on them.  
  
He leant back against the door, suddenly deflated, and wondered how he'd found the energy to walk down the hall to the room. How he hadn't just passed out the minute they'd climbed up into the truck. Whatever sense of self-preservation had kept him going so far seemed to evaporate in seconds, leaving him drained and motionless.   
  
With eyes closed he breathed deep, trying to ignore the sting of the scorched, arid air. Their room, thankfully, did not have the same greasy smell as the one where they'd checked in. Instead it registered as musty and rarely used. The air felt as though it had been undisturbed for many weeks, and he knew if he inspected the shabby dresser or the windowsill that there'd be dust.  
  
But that would require movement, and right now Jonathan wasn't sure he could even manage to fall. He still sagged against the door, exhausted even at the thought of doing anything else.  
  
Andrew had made it as far as the bed before crumpling down on to the faded cotton sheets and scrunching up his face, one hand batting away tears. He made no attempt to hide the silent sobs that shook him with steadily increasing ferocity. Jonathan watched with a peculiar sense of detachment, almost as though he was still waiting for the punch line. He knew he too would probably feel like breaking down and weeping, once he found the energy and the reality of what had happened finally sank in, but Andrew wept for more than that. The name he whispered between breaths was the only decipherable sound either of them made.  
  
Everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours had assumed a slippery, plastic quality that made it all feel entirely artificial, like shop-bought memories that weren't really his. How could they possibly have been arrested, or almost killed by Willow Rosenberg of all people? And how the hell had Andrew been in love with Warren?  
  
  
  
It was almost a comical thought, and even now Jonathan had to suppress a bubble of hysterical laughter as he imagined the two of them together. Tried to imagine anyone loving Warren. Wondered if Warren had actually loved Andrew in return.  
  
Warren was not... had not been lovable. Good things slipped right past him, like he was Teflon-coated. Only the bad stuff penetrated, and that stuff twisted and boiled inside him and turned him into... into exactly the kind of sick twisted fuck who would pretend to love someone like Andrew if he could use it to his own advantage.   
  
Like the movement of glaciers, it was settling slowly into place. He spared Andrew another glance, and the scorched air suddenly lent a touch of warmth to the pity Jonathan felt for the boy.  
  
Sweat dribbled between his shoulder blades and pooled just above his waistband. He felt disgusting and suddenly kind of woozy, and had to brace himself against the door to keep from toppling over.  
  
Despite the baked air in the room, a couple of deep breaths made the nausea subside, and eventually he found himself steady enough to cross the room and stand by Andrew. It took the boy a few seconds to register Jonathan's presence in his personal space, but even that was not enough time for Jonathan to prepare himself for the look on Andrew's face when he glanced up. It tore through the weariness and the aches and the fear, wrenching Jonathan in two, and as much as he wanted to scream at Andrew and smack him for his stupidity, he could not keep from reaching out and laying a hand on Andrew's shoulder.   
  
The contact sparked the first real break in the silence, as Andrew immediately descended into loud, open-mouthed sobs. Jonathan was aware of a disconnected sense of resentment. How could Andrew be so presumptuous? He wanted to be the one who got to break down and cry on someone else's shoulder. He wanted to lose it, and Andrew had taken that privilege from him without even asking.  
  
But that was his place now. He was the one grounded in reality, and he had to be the strong one. He was the one who had to keep them both from giving in.   
  
Warren couldn't have possibly known what he was messing with, Jonathan decided. The look on Andrew's face was proof enough.  
  
His knees gave way of their own accord and he dropped on to the bed next to Andrew. The blonde twisted enough to lay his head on Jonathan's shoulder, and Jonathan let him cry.  
  
***** 


End file.
